Grand Designs
by Pivot
Summary: Armada: It takes half a minute to summarize a master plan, half a day to complete it, and an ungodly amount of talent in between to pull it off... and this, Thrust explains, is where he comes in.


_Disclaimer: Still don't own 'em, still wishing I did._

_This was started a day or two after Christmas. I finally finished it. Feel my joy. I am pester-free! (At least, until the Minicons call back.) Will take a moment to thank the kind reviewers of this ficlet's siblings, and then wave goodbye to this little headache once and for all. So: thanks to all those who can and do seem to withstand these things._

* * *

**Grand Designs**

On occasion, I wonder what it might be like to live a simple life.

Not that I want to, you understand: merely out of curiosity. And naturally, my interest in understanding such things has often been the key to my success: to control and manipulate something, you always need to have _some_ degree of understanding.

Besides, in many ways, my life _is_ simple enough. I have a job to do, people to consider, and, naturally, orders to follow. Nor is it that I simply fail to appreciate simplicity: it, too, can have a kind of… fundamental… beauty: well, if you don't believe me, go and catch Oceanglide in one of his more introspective moods. Even if he fails to convince you that the sea is the embodiment of art, one look at his arsenal should convince you to keep your vocaliser properly _quiet_, hm?

…Now, where were we? Ah, yes: the sea. Some people might say that it is part of a larger picture, some 'grand design', some master plan; perhaps that is why I can appreciate it.

The thing about grand designs, you see, is that they are inevitably very complicated.

Oh, the principles are straightforward; the details are simple on close examination, but in between… how to co-ordinated such chaos into a masterpiece, a master plan?

That is where I come in. It's up to me to sort out such minor details as how three tanks and a seeker can cause a ridiculous amount of trouble in unforgiving terrain while outnumbered thirteen to one.

It is true that I revel in the complex, in the intricate, in the weaving of plots and threads into patterns that appear only when it is too late – for my rivals, that is. But that is my taste, and my preferred style; a craft I have been centuries in the learning of, and have yet to master… fully. I do have great talent, but to tell you the truth, my skill has carried me further than it should rightfully have, because I lack competition.

I have no rivals; no teachers, few examples - and all of them are long dead. My profession employs millions of people over hundreds of generations, but it is a lonely art, an obscure skill, mainly because few ever understand what it is. Even those who praise my work usually do not recognise what it is I'm doing.

To me, of course, it is startlingly clear. Just reviewing the old works, every stroke, every step, every stage and measure, every syllable or note or flash of insight leaps out at me, begs to be examined and appraised and delighted in. Every action and instant and thought becomes a stroke of the brush, a thread of colour on the greater tapestry of the whole.

That in itself is highly enjoyable, but to be out there, creating my own art, adding my own work to the legacy of the next such person to follow (I am beginning to suspect that there can only be one of us at a time), directing and composing and watching my next masterpiece unfold…

…It is exhilarating, thrilling and invigorating and perfect beyond description or compare. Unfortunately, I do seem to spend much of my time picking up the pieces from a predecessor's folly. By now I've developed something of a knack for turning ruins into strongholds. This time, my hope is that I won't have to waste my time on such matters – considering the people involved, why would I?

…What?

…_Excuse me?_ Do you mean to say you don't _know_? Why, can't you guess?

My art, naturally, is war.

Of course! Each strike, and movement and declaration and shot and advance is to me what each toolstroke is to a painter. Yes, each small section of the battlefield, each smaller battle within the whole is a very simple conflict: one soldier against another. Collectively, however, it takes great skill to shape the course of even one encounter, but if one can succeed, well…

Not only do you earn respect and, in due course, some amount of the glory, but competence marks you out for promotion, and promotion brings power, which is important because it gives you more control, more resources, more freedom in your work. What more can one ask?

For the successful, rewards are only to be expected, but _still_, to receive a chance like this, to be sent to this most critical zone of conflict at _this_ delicate juncture… _This_ is recognition and opportunity for me. A challenge it will be: of that, I have no doubt, and challenge is what I thrive on. To be challenged and to learn is a fuel that will sustain me no matter what frustrations I encounter.

As for the honour of working with the greatest Decepticon leader in history, I am not blind to that. I won't let myself be overawed by it, though. Of course I won't. I have a job to do, and as long as I am allowed to get on with it, I can foresee no problems arising. But there are always complications. Always there are unforeseen problems; well, if I could foresee them, they wouldn't be unforeseen, would they?

Ah, yes, my life is one of complications, but that is only fitting: I am a master of complexity, and who else could be trusted to conjure grand designs from ashes?

* * *

Inferno wasn't sure what to think of his new partner after that first conversation. The kid was plain overenthusiastic in parts; in others, it had occurred to the veteran Minicon that this Decepticon, like the others, might very well be insane. But he did seem to know what he was talking about… 

Seemed to. Yeah, great comfort, that. _Megatron_ seemed to know what he was doing most of the time. Inferno had ceased to hold out any hope of something coming of it.

All the same, he thought, regarding his new partner shrewdly as Thrust set co-ordinates for the warp gate, this one didn't seem too far gone. _Catch 'em young, indeed, _he thought. First, he'd see what Thrust did this time out, and later…

_Later_, thought Inferno smugly while the Decepticon finished with the console, _later his instruction can begin…_

Perhaps, if Thrust had not been so preoccupied in his own plans, he might have noticed Inferno's smirk, but perhaps not: both of them were already cloaking, and the smirk was gone in an instant.

Half a second later, so were they.

* * *

_Well, of course it was Thrust. Makes perfect sense. Yes. Just because he rocks. It's before he actually **meets** the other Decepticons, poor thing... but after he picks out Inferno. Guess he'd have had to introduce himself at some point, if only to deny Inferno the opportunity to come up with more unflattering names for him._

_We would like to thank the surviving readers for putting in such an effort, and invite those who still haven't gone into shock to click on the button marked 'review' for some reason. Why? We'll get back to you on that._

_And don't forget to support your local coneheaded tactical geniuses!_


End file.
